


We (Won't) Make a Trade

by brejamison



Series: Dick Grayson Must Die [10]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Titans (Comics), Titans (TV 2018)
Genre: BAMF Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt Dick Grayson, Torture, Whump, captive dick grayson, hallucination bruce wayne, worried titans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23600008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brejamison/pseuds/brejamison
Summary: In which Deathstroke takes Dick up on his offer to trade himself for Jason and Rose.
Relationships: Dawn Granger & Dick Grayson & Hank Hall & Donna Troy, Dick Grayson & Donna Troy, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Koriand'r & Garfield Logan & Raven & Rose Wilson
Series: Dick Grayson Must Die [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670542
Comments: 8
Kudos: 122





	We (Won't) Make a Trade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anonymous on tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=anonymous+on+tumblr).



**TITANS TOWER**   
**SAN FRANCISCO**

"Jason!" Dick called, bursting onto the roof. The teen was standing with his back to him, precariously perched on the edge of the building. 

"It should have been me," he said, tears in his eyes. He was thinking about that night. The night he was suspended from the side of a building, the night he was strung out like a feather on a string, waiting for the predator to pounce. The night his life was reduced to a bargaining chip. The night Dick traded his life for Jason's. 

Dick swallowed, watching him carefully. "It's okay." 

"Except it isn't, is it? Nothing about this is. It's all kinds of fucked up. He wanted me. He _had_ me. You... you shouldn't have done that." 

"It wasn't you he wanted, Jason. Not really. Trust me." 

Gulping down more tears, the teen shook his head. "How do you know that? How do you know it wasn't what I deserve? I... Stuff happens to people around me. They die or they get sick... It's like I'm a virus, like this curse follows me, intent on destroying everything I touch and everyone I... Everyone I care about. I need to remove myself from the equation. It's the only way." It if hadn't been for him, Dick wouldn't have traded himself. If he hadn't been so reckless, he wouldn't have gotten captured and Dick wouldn't have been tortured to an inch of his life.

Dick averted his eyes, searching the gravel of the rooftop for the answer. "You aren't cursed, Jason. And you don't deserve what happened to you."

"How can you say that knowing who I am? What I've done? How can you say I don't deserve to die?" Because he did. It should have been him Deathstroke took his vengeance out on.

Dick swallowed thickly. "Because..." Flashes of blood and pain tore across his vision, and he closed his eyes against them. Screaming, begging, torment and torture. And for what? To avenge a dead boy? To bring catharsis to a grieving father and mother? Or to send a message, to make a point? "Because what happened? It's what _I_ deserved." 

Jason blinked, finally turning to look back at him. "What...?"

"You don't deserve what happened, Jason. Being kidnapped? Tortured? Held for ransom? That wasn't on you. It wasn't even _about_ you, not really." Lip quivering, Dick looked around the skyline, sunlight catching the tear in his eye. The dam he had been holding back for so long, the straw house in the way of a hurricane, was starting to crumble down. "But what happened to me? What I went through?" Jason was looking at him fully now, hanging on every word, intrigued by every exposed crack in Dick's usually impenetrable armor. 

It only made him cry harder. "What that - that monster did to me?" He hadn't told anyone what had happened. They could guess by looking at him, by examining his bruises and wounds, but torture always ended one way. And that's with the deepest scars on the inside. Dick pulled in a breath. 

"How he cut me up? How he humiliated me? How he..." No. Not that. "He hurt me. So many times, in so many ways. And I... For what I did to him? For what I did to... I deserved every piece of it." He pulled in his emotions, finally dragging his eyes back to the teen. "Don't blame yourself, Jason. Please. I had it coming, I... He got his pound of flesh, just like he was promised." 

With a soft thud, Jason stepped off the rooftop ledge. He faltered, just for a second, before inching carefully forward. "Dude..." he asked, eyes roaming over Dick's body just once to take inventory of his injuries, the tremors in his hands, the sleepless hysteria in his eyes. "The hell did he do to you?" 

Dick dared to look him in the eye. 

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,

**THREE DAYS EARLIER**   
**SAN FRANCISCO**

"You want your pound of flesh, revenge for what happened, and I want this to end once and for all. So how about we make a deal, huh?" He took off his bulletproof vest, tossing it aside. 

"You can have me," he offered, hands raised near his head. "Instead of Rose or Jason. Pretty sure I'm the one you're mad at anyway."

Gulping, he lowered himself to his knees, fingers intertwined in his hair. "Here I am. Unarmed." In his thin T-Shirt and jeans, Deathstroke would be able to tell he wasn't packing. Knives could be more easily concealed, but this specially selected outfit left little room for that. He wanted this to go cleanly and took every precaution necessary to make sure it did.

Three bullets pinged into the ground before him and Dick flinched. His detective brain automatically tracked the trajectory of the bullets and he knew Deathstroke was behind him before the man even started talking. 

"You never learn, do you?" he began and Dick had to force himself to keep his eyes forward, just like a good little hostage. "Always the hero," the man continued, emerging from the shadows. "But you're not going to dictate how this will go. You aren't a martyr. You're a conman, preying on those weak enough to follow you." Deathstroke stood before him and Dick dared to look him in the eye. "The problem with conmen is that they never know when to stop. And someone else always pays." 

"Let's just get this over with, huh?" Dick interrupted, tired of all the talk. He just wanted to know Jason was alright. All hell would break loose soon but not before he was sure Jason was safe. 

Deathstroke took several steps back, lone eye trained on Dick like a predator. "Get up." 

Dick obeyed, keeping his hands behind his head. 

"Take a look," Deathstroke commanded, flipping a switch. The screen lifted and Dick could see Jason tied to the suspended scaffold outside, hands bound behind his back. Once the screen rose enough and Robin could see it was Dick watching him, he started struggling, grunting and jerking against the bar. There was a bomb strapped to the suspension cables and Dick didn't have to think long to figure out what would happen if it went off. 

Deathstroke rose a hand, a detonator clutched in his glove. "Say goodbye to your little friend," he said, thumb moving for the button.

A lightning bolt went off inside Dick and he panicked. "Wait!" he begged, hands outstretched. Deathstroke paused, head tilting curiously. Dick breathed heavily, eyes flickering to Jason. It was different when he couldn't see the kid, when he thought this was going to be a peaceful exchange and no one would be any the wiser. But with Jason here to witness, it changed the game. 

And Deathstroke knew it. Dick's large eyes flickered to him, betrayal and understanding swirling in the dark orbs. Deathstroke didn't want Dick to surrender, to beg quietly in the sanctity of this secluded room. No, he wanted to humiliate him, to make him beg in front of his replacement, his charge - the very person Dick was trying to protect. The new Robin would bear witness to the fall of the old. 

It shouldn't have, but somehow the realization surprised Dick. He just didn't think one man could be this cruel. 

He pulled in a breath, holding it captive in his chest. "I'm sorry, Jason," he whispered, easily finding the undivided attention of the teen before him. Slowly, Dick rose his hands again. He took several steps back, moving to a respectful distance, and lowered himself to his knees. 

"You can have me. Just let the boy go. Please."

Deathstroke seemed to consider it and it took a half-second longer for Jason to realize what was happening. As soon as it did, though, he started yelling in rage, jerking against the rail. His voice was muffled by the thick glass and Dick was thankful for small mercies. Not that there was any doubt what the teen was shrieking at them, but at least Dick wouldn't have two voices haunting him. He could barely handle the one.

Thanks, Bruce.

Deathstroke approached him, eye narrowed in thought. Jason stilled. Then, the man drew his sword and pointed it at Dick's throat. That got Robin rioting all over again, and Dick had to wave a hand at him to settle down. If he kept struggling he wouldn't need the bomb to break the scaffold; he'd do it himself. And that would defeat the purpose of everything. 

"You would so easily go back on our arrangement?" Deathstroke taunted. "Rewrite the rules to benefit you and your selfish interests? Turn yourself over for this boy?" 

Dick huffed at him. "Yes, I would," he snarled defiantly. "Because this isn't a fight that has anything to do with him or Rose. This is between you, me, and what I did. And I won't let any more innocent blood be spilled. Not over that. Not when there's already been too much." 

Deathstroke yelled, swinging his blade. It slashed Dick across the face, cutting a short but deep canyon into his cheek. Jason roared outside and Dick toppled to the side, the entire side of his face on fire. Blood splattered to the floor and he was sure the blade had touched his cheekbone. 

"You will not come here and slander his name!" the larger man scolded. 

Dick coughed, raising his hands. "I didn't come for that!" he replied. Jason had gone quiet and Dick sat up to find a gun pointed to his forehead. He calmed his breathing, hands at his ears. "I just don't want anyone else to get hurt. Not Jason, not Rose, not anyone." 

"No one but yourself." 

He gulped loudly. "If it saves them..." 

His mask tilted to the left. "And why should I accept your offer? Do not forget, Grayson, you gain more out of this trade than I do. You get your little sheep back, just as I promised, while I still don't have my daughter." He pulled the hammer back.

"You got me instead, though. And I'm the one you're really after, right? The one you're really mad at." 

"You did not follow the agreed upon rules, Grayson. This trade you propose is not equivalent. So, how are you going to make up the dividend? What was it you said: that I will get my pound of flesh?" 

Dick sighed, staring the devil in the eye. "You will get your pound of flesh. It's yours. I am offering you my life, a chance to have the one who..." The gun pressed to his forehead. He waved Jason down again. "The one you want. Have _my_ blood, _my_ flesh. And in return, all you have to do is let Jason go." 

Deathstroke waited, almost expecting Dick to continue. Dick held his form, jaw tight and breathing heavily. 

They stared at each other for a long moment. 

The devil blinked first. 

"Very well," he said, pulling the gun back. "I accept your deal." 

Dick could almost breathe again but didn't dare let himself feel relief. Deathstroke could turn on him on a dime and Dick had to be ready for it. 

"Get up," the larger man instructed and Dick slowly rose to his feet. Deathstroke waved with his sword. "That way. Walk until I tell you to stop."

Jason watched them walk into the building, leaving him and the window behind. "Dick! Dick, get back here! Don't do this!" he shouted to the man's retreating form. "Dick, stop!" 

Dick paused halfway to the elevator, glancing back at Jason. "What about him?" 

"They will find him." 

"When?" 

"Our deal was that I would release the boy. Not rescue him." 

Dick turned forward, biting the inside of his cheek angrily. He wanted to argue, demand that leaving Jason strapped to the outside of a building with a small bomb the only thing keeping him in the air was hardly letting him go. But Bruce's voice came back to him, loud enough it was almost like he was standing right there.

_"Choose your battles, son. If you fight every fight, you reveal your hand. You open yourself to exhaustion and allow the enemy to learn more about you than you would ever permit. Better to lose some battles if it means you save yourself for the war."_

Save himself for the war. That's all Dick had to do. Wait until they were out of range of the bomb or anyone else and strike back. It would be a fight, a glorious and bloody brawl. And this time, only one of them would walk away. 

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,

**UNKNOWN**   
**SAN FRANCISCO**

They had to enter Slade's house through a short iron gate. A series of steps lead to a small rock garden, surrounded on all sides by the thick glass windows of the house. On one side, a dining room and kitchen. Another, a lounge. A third an office and the fourth was hidden behind thick black doors. Wintergreen swung the doors open and Dick was escorted through. The interior was all black steel and polished marble. Immaculately clean and decorated. Dick had been around money long enough to know when someone flaunted it or simply used it to keep up appearances. Slade was the latter, he decided as they crossed the small balcony, walking down more steps to arrive at the sub-level. Another lounge, a short hallway, a corner, and more steps later they finally arrived at a locked door. 

Dick wasn't stupid. He knew what this was. Slade was taunting him, showing off his home and knowing full well that Dick would be taking stock of every security measure, every re-enforced door, and doubly thick glass window. He was allowing him to get a feel for the land because it wouldn't do him any good. He could know the layout by heart, have every access code and blind-spot memorized, and he still wasn't leaving this place. 

It was a professional courtesy, giving the captive a tour of their tomb. 

Finally, they arrived at his cell. They had to walk through the armory to do so and god, the hubris of this man. The cell was a small glass enclosure in the center of a slightly larger room. Wintergreen inputted the code for the cell door and Dick noticed the cameras in opposite corners of the room, red lights watching his every move. The door unlocked and Wintergreen held it open, turning expectantly. Another taunt, the two men standing on either side of him, just out of reach of any coordinated attack. 

Dick took some solace in knowing that the mind games wouldn't work. If he could identify them for what they were, they wouldn't have an effect on him. 

At least, they wouldn't in theory. 

He ducked his head and entered the cell. It was criminally small and contained only a military-style cot and a steel toilet and sink combination. The cot was the entire length of the wall, the room was so small. The cell walls and door were made entirely of thick glass, a thin bar of steel holding the pin pad lock for the door. 

The door clicked shut behind him, beeped locked, and Dick turned to look at his captives. Wintergreen stepped back, him and Slade eyeing Dick like a trapped zoo animal. 

"Is that all you'll be needing from me?" Wintergreen asked, hands folded behind his back politely. 

"For now, yes. Go and ensure we weren't followed. Then you can leave for the night." 

The man nodded. "Consider it done. I'll see you in the moring, then." He nodded to them before turning to take his leave. 

It all hit Dick very suddenly once the outer room door clicked shut and he found himself alone in a confined space with Slade Wilson. He was at the man's mercy. He had agreed, in great emotional distress, to trade himself for Jason and Rose. He had promised Deathstroke his pound of flesh for Dick using his son. Jericho was dead, it was Dick's fault, and now Slade had all the authority and means in the world to beat that into his head until his dying breath. 

It would be okay, though, even if Dick died. He had done some crazy shit to keep this secret buried. And if he was to buried alongside it, so much the better. He didn't _want_ to die, per se, but not having to fight or hide in shame anymore was a tantalizing prospect. 

"Clean yourself up," Slade demanded. "And rest. We start early." 

Dick gulped, frowning as the man pivoted to leave. "Start what? You've already shown me your house. Had your PA lock me up, stripped me to look for weapons..." He shrugged. "What's next? Are you going to strap me to a chair and make me watch sad movies? Beat me? Make me bleed, make me beg?" Maybe it was the adrenaline drop off. Maybe it was an overwhelming sense of fuck-it or the relative safety of a thick glass wall between him and the larger man. He wasn't sure what was fueling his outburst, but he was feeling especially snarky, desperate to snag hold of any shred of power in this dire situation. So he did what any scared kid would do; he bit, he snarled, he taunted and teased. It was stupid. But he was stupid, and tired, and his face hurt like hell thanks to the slash in his cheek. 

Slade turned to him, crossing his buff arms. "I'm not going to make you do anything, Grayson." Slowly, methodically, he advanced on the cell. "At the end of our time here, you will be begging me to kill you of your own free will, grovel at my feet and plead with me to end your miserable existence. And I..." He raised a hand and Dick took a small step back. "I will not have laid a single finger on you. I will destroy you exactly as you coerced my son into dying for your paltry plan..." Curling his fingers, he tapped his temple once. "By corrupting your mind. I know what made you into what you are, Richard John Grayson. And I know how to dismantle it all." 

About facing, he marched to the door, letting it slam shut behind him. 

Dick was left alone in the cell, breathing heavily and working his jaw. "Shit," he muttered, hands pulling at his hair. Heavily, he collapsed to the cot, scrubbing at his face. 

_"I wouldn't do that."_

He hissed, fingers pulling at the wound on his cheek. They came away slightly red and that was just great. He must have reopened it. Huffing, he stood and made his way to the sink to wash off. When he looked up from the bowl and found Bruce standing behind him, he was hardly surprised. 

The ghost shrugged. _"I told you not to do that. It will make a hell of a souvenir, though, you've got to admit. A real conversation starter."_

Dick ignored him, rolling his eyes. He yanked the thin blanket off the cot, tearing a sliver of fabric from it. It wasn't ideal, but a covering was better than no covering. And Dick really didn't want the cut to scar. And, yes, he was vain enough to admit it was partly because he didn't want an ugly ass scar on his cheek for the rest of his life. But he also tried not to think about the looks of pity and inquiring stares he would get from the Titans, the League, everyone who knew him whenever he walked into a room. 

Slade's mark was on his face and Dick would be damned if he didn't do everything in his power to make it go away. Scar his arms, his shoulders, his stomach, or his back. Rip up his legs, go for the shins or knees. But being cruel to his face right off the bat? That was just rude. 

Wound cleaned best he could - too bad he couldn't stitch or wrap it properly - he kicked his boots off and settled onto the mattress. He was loathe to admit, but as far as cots went, it wasn't the worst he had ever slept on. Standard military issue, which made sense considering Slade's past as a soldier. A sniper in one of the most elite squadrons, before they took him and experimented on his body. 

Dick lowered himself to his back, the thin blanket pulled up to his chin. Slade promised he would torture Dick without laying a finger on him. Did that mean he was going to experiment on him like the military had? Pump him full of performance enhancing drugs and hope his heart didn't give out? He rolled to his side. No, there were plenty of ways to torment someone without touching them. Gas and drugs, for starters. Then there were long-range weapons like whips and percussive ones like bats or clubs. Fire and water could be deadly, or even earth if he was feeling creative. 

Sighing, he scooted to his other side, letting his sore cheek taste the open air. Would Slade involve Wintergreen? If Wintergreen touched him, would that count? Slade certainly seemed like the kind of man who would have someone do his dirty work just so he could save face. He was a sniper, after all, a class of soldier who didn't exactly operate up close and personal. Except he finished all of the fights Dick had seen him pick and was skilled with several kinds of swords and blades. 

Would those count as touch? Were there specific parameters, like distance he had to be from Dick's flesh or was it physical only? 

Fingers snapped loudly in front of his face and Dick blinked, large eyes focusing on Bruce's curious expression. 

"What do you want?" he sighed. 

The ghost looked offended. _"Thought I lost you there, is all. Caught up in your own dark fantasies?"_ he asked, raising a hand to stroke Dick's hair. 

Dick swatted him away. "Don't fucking touch me. And no, I wasn't fantasizing about what's going to happen. Slade's going to torture me. I'm probably going to die. End of story." 

_"The end is only what you make of it. They can see you, you know."_

He frowned. "What? Who?" 

_"Not the cameras, though I'm certain that sadistic prick is enjoying watching you fret. And certainly not if they don't try."_

Rolling his eyes, he turned his back to the ghost. Maybe putting pressure on his cheek was the way to go. "I don't know what you're talking about." 

_"Then allow me to enlighten you-"_

"No, no. Don't do that. Just shut up. I need to sleep." 

Even though he was faced the opposite direction, Dick could perfectly see Bruce's shrug because that was such a fucking Bruce thing to do. _"If by sleep you mean toss and turn for hours on end, haunted by visions and thoughts you can't hope to explain and worries you won't be able to satisfy. Then, please, by all means. Fret all night long if that makes you feel any better."_

"The only thing that's haunting me right now is you. So if you could kindly fuck off that would be appreciated." 

_"But I can't, though."_

"Maybe if you tried." 

_"They can see you, son. They're watching."_

He shook his head, snuggling deeper into the cot. "I don't know what you're saying and I don't care." 

Bruce was silent for a long moment and Dick finally closed his eyes, satisfied that he would be able to sleep in peace. Or, at least toss and turn for hours, caught up in overthinking and plagued by guilt until he got so tired he gave up entirely and decided passing out from exhaustion would be better. So like any other night, really.

**Author's Note:**

> Admittedly a bit of a lackluster start. Work has been kicking my ass and draining me. I can't promise this will be updated frequently, but I'll try for once a week at least.


End file.
